Falling in Love with the Game

When I was young, I was surrounded by opportunity in the game of golf. My grandfather played, as did his brother, and my father followed suit, becoming quite skilled in his game. My grandfather passed away when I was six, and while my memories of him are faint, they remain vivid in their own way: his house, Klondike bars in the freezer, a worn leather chair and ottoman, and the steady plume of smoke drifting from his right hand like a reverse waterfall.

But perhaps the most distinct memory I have is of the Club. Members rarely used its full name,it was simply “the Club.” As a child, I had no idea I was stepping into one of the most storied places in American golf: Saucon Valley Country Club.

Founded in 1920 by a group of Bethlehem Steel businessmen, the club began with the Saucon Course, now known as the Old Course, designed by Herbert Strong. Construction was completed in 1921, and the course officially opened the following year. After World War II, the club expanded to accommodate its growing membership. William Gordon, alongside his son David, designed the Grace Course, named after founding member Eugene Grace. The first nine holes opened in 1953, with the second nine completed five years later. In 1968, the Weyhill Course opened, giving the club three championship-caliber layouts. Over the years, Saucon Valley has hosted U.S. Senior Opens, U.S. Women’s events, junior championships, and collegiate tournaments for Lehigh University.

As a child, though, I knew none of that. I remember the pool, the barroom, and the clubhouse far more than the course itself. There was a diving board, and I was five, that was enough. In fact, I didn’t truly experience the golf course until 2022, when the U.S. Senior Open returned to Saucon Valley for the third time. I followed Ernie Els for an afternoon, walking fairways that looked exactly as I had remembered them. The grounds were pristine and immaculately maintained, preserving much of the character of the second clubhouse, which had been rebuilt after the original burned down in 1928. Seeing it again brought back an overwhelming rush of memories. Especially when i caught a glimpse of the pool.

After my grandfather passed away, my family allowed their membership to lapse. It was an expensive ride even then, and with a young family trying to make their own way, monthly dues were not realistic.

The story of how my grandfather and his brother became members in the first place, is one I have always loved.

My great-uncle was an elected official in Washington, and many of the club’s investors and members were tied to Bethlehem Steel. When he first inquired about membership, he was denied, subtly but unmistakably, because he was from a different class and religion.

Not long afterward, Bethlehem Steel found itself in a difficult position. The company had been running heavy dump trucks along a state road 412 toward I 78, and the Department of Transportation began issuing substantial fines for exceeding the road’s weight restrictions. The penalties became costly, and Bethlehem Steel needed an alternative route. Their solution required creating a spur that would connect to Interstate 78, an operation that would require political support. Support my uncle was uniquely positioned to provide.

I have often imagined the moment he received the phone call. He acknowledged that the project could certainly be accomplished, but not before reminding them, with deliberate irony, what little an Irish Catholic boy from South Bethlehem could possibly do to help them.

Somewhere in that conversation, his rejected membership application resurfaced. The board reconsidered. Soon after, the roadway project moved forward, and both my grandfather and his brother became members of the Club.

My uncle maintained his membership for the rest of his life despite living in Washington, D.C. Whenever he returned to the Lehigh Valley, he could almost always be found there.

Years later, my father joined another club with deep Bethlehem Steel roots, then known as Silver Creek. I have many memories there as well, though very few are actually related to golf.

At the time, my interests revolved around BMX, skateboarding, music, and culture. I never naturally gravitated toward sports, despite being pushed into nearly all of them, and golf was no exception. My introduction to the game felt more like a burden than a gift.

One summer, my father enrolled me in a multi-week junior golf camp intended to introduce beginners to the game. It failed, at least temporarily. I remember almost nothing from it.

Except one moment. After the camp is over the instructors invite the parents on the range to show their improvement. My father questioned the instructors about why they had taught me to swing right-handed. I was left-handed. Neither of us had thought to mention that detail throughout the entire process. We played together once or twice afterward.

Aside from the occasional trip to the driving range, golf slowly disappeared from my life. Still, it was always present in the background. Every Sunday, golf was on television in our house. As I got older, I became fascinated by the precision of it, the idea that someone could send a ball only a few inches wide hundreds of yards with purpose and control.

Years later, I found an old set of my father’s clubs sitting in the garage. For no particular reason, I started hitting balls in the backyard. And for the first time, I understood the appeal. I wanted to hit the ball far. Straight. Like the players I had watched for years.

Before long, I had lost every backyard golf ball I owned and found a driving range nearby. I would show up with nothing but a driver and hammer through buckets of balls. I loved it. But I was still too nervous to actually play. My father had more or less retired from the game, and I assumed none of my friends golfed either.

Then something interesting happened. The more I talked about golf, the more it seemed to appear everywhere. Friends and acquaintances I had never associated with the game suddenly revealed that they played regularly. The turning point came while visiting family out west. There is a small nine-hole public course called Mellen Country Club. It is not flashy or famous, or indeed a Country Club at all, just one of those quiet, beautiful little golf courses scattered throughout America.

My cousins invited a large group of us out to play, and that day became the true beginning of my love for the game. At the driving range beforehand, I could barely get the ball off the tee. I was unbelievably nervous.

The first hole was a par five, a sharp dogleg right that fell away downhill toward a tree-lined green. I stepped onto the tee box, swung, and hit the ball straight down the middle. For the first time, I felt it.

The second hole was a par three that typically played somewhere between 160 and 190 yards. The tee shot crossed over the road leading into the clubhouse. A public road ran along the entire right side, while a pond guarded the left. I hit a five-iron that flew straight and landed just short of the green. I cannot tell you much else about that round. I probably did not hit another memorable shot, or even the ball.

But I remember those first two shots perfectly. Even now, years later, I can still visualize them. Looking back, that was the exact moment I fell in love with golf. Not because I played well, I certainly did not, but because, for the first time, I saw what was possible.

That is the beauty of golf. Given enough swings, eventually one connects perfectly. And when it does, it stays with you forever.